A trillion tries at life
by Nunki S
Summary: Making it through the day is hard enough without extra complications, so what to do when someone's folding the fabric of reality as if it were origami? A tale of misdeeds, budding romances and clashing universes! · AU. NnoiTes, IchiIshi, ByaRen, others
1. Overtime

**A trillion tries at life**

_As people struggle with feelings, duty and desire, a man watches from his seat on the highest floor of the tallest building around and smiles. He knows their life is better somewhere._

**Rated T** (rating will go up later when things get... physical). For now it contains language, blood, murder and dismemberment, nothing worse than what we've seen in the original work. Which brings me to the  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bleach. If I did I'd get paid for trolling you, but I don't, so if I ever want to troll you I'll have to do it for free. Alas!

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**1 · Overtime**

Six sets of footsteps were quickly approaching. Half a dozen very loud sets of footsteps. The apparent lack of stealth could mean two things: either it wasn't their priority, in other words, for some reason they were confident they'd get him this time (the sad fuckers), or maybe they were stupid enough not to realise that wearing tap shoes to an urban chase scene didn't really play in their favour.

No, not "or", more like "and". The level of stupidity needed to make one of the statements true would surely make the other one a given... ah, whatever, he didn't care. The point was that he'd been dragged out of bed at two in the morning just to take care of a couple faceless mooks, and that made him mad.

There they were, in all their not-so-menacing glory, the six of them wearing identical cheap pinstripe suits and sporting identical irritating grins on their faces. He'd led them to a dead end street, figuring the fight would be a bit more interesting if the goons believed they had the upper hand - he was just trying to spice things up a bit, no harm in that, was there? Cutting up people who'd rather run back home crying to mama just wasn't worth his time. And lo and behold, they'd taken the bait again. Seeing him slouching, hands in his pockets, cornered between them and the brick wall covered with neon green graffiti, their slightly defensive stances were replaced by a poorly coordinated attack.

Like in a B movie, the guy in the middle (which incidentally was the biggest one of the low-ranked thugs) took out a switchblade and charged directly towards him, his movements so predictable it took only minimal effort to dodge the thrust and the following punch. Bastard was wearing a ring on each finger, so tight they made them look like swollen sausages. Snickering at the thought, he grabbed one of Sausage Fingers's arms and kneed him on the chin. Being freakishly tall had its pluses.

"What's so funny, you sonuvabitch?"

"Fucker, you gonna pay for that!"

Lame threats. Half-assed punches.

Stupid and annoying and, above all, weak. He had no reason to cherish their lives; he had, however, a couple reasons to off them.

First, that was his job.

Second, chopping things into pieces was a pretty good stress relief method. Even better than popping bubble wrap.

That's why Nnoitra Gilga didn't think twice before letting the carnage begin.

He smiled, his teeth a flash of perfect white danger, and time paused around him as a waxing crescent that rivaled his expanding grin rose from under his coat. He flicked his wrist slightly upwards, light reflected off the curved blade momentarily blinding the increasingly frightened audience.

"Calm down, I'm not the Grim Reaper." He paused, if only for dramatic effect. "Just fillin' in for him."

The next two minutes were a whirl of flying limbs, a couple of them detached from their respective bodies and obviously not his. He took some blows – it was six against one, after all – but the damage didn't exceed the expected minimum. Soon three of the thugs were lying on the ground, either dead or dying, and he'd just knocked out the fourth one with a well-aimed kick to the temple. Alright, maybe dress shoes weren't so bad, as long as they were pointy enough to hurt.

Only two to go. Sausage Fingers was somehow still standing, albeit staggering a bit. He had to give him credit, the fucker was more durable than he'd first thought. Must be one of the advantages of having a thick skull. But nevermind, his drowsy movements made him an extremely easy target, and playing with easy targets was no fun, so he decided to get over with it and stabbed him right in the heart. And suddenly,

"Hey, wait! What do you think you're doing?" a male voice called out from behind him.

Reinforcements...? The light squeaking of a pair of trainers told him otherwise. Had the newcomer belonged to the same group, he'd have been wearing equally noisy shoes, so he would have heard him coming from a mile away. It was probably a random passerby who wanted to play the hero, and he didn't feel like entertaining a wannabe hero. Groaning, he dislodged his double-edged sickle from Sausage Fingers's chest and swung it backwards, then his frown disappeared when the sharp metal made contact with flesh again. He turned his head to see the Hero for the first time: a sandy-haired youth was kneeling on the concrete pavement, a deep cut across his right cheek. The cut was bleeding quite a bit, but it didn't look life-threatening. Unfortunately.

"Aw shit, I missed—"

He didn't even get to finish his sentence before he was jumped. So much for wishing the new guy would just scram. He wasn't surprised, however, that he didn't try to hurt him at all, choosing instead to attempt to immobilize him while wrestling his weapon away. Pacifist heroes were a particularly common (and nasty) breed. It took some extra effort, but in the end he managed to pry the young man off him and elbowed him hard in the solar plexus. Hopefully that'd give him enough time to wrap up his job.

After making sure the kid wouldn't interfere for a while, he turned his attention to the last one of the goons. The last guy (his face was paper white and his nose was swollen and covered in fresh blood. Nnoitra figured he'd call that one Ronald McDonald), obviously cowering, took a step backwards and tripped over a motionless piece of meat that used to be his colleague. He would have fallen on his ass if the graffitied wall hadn't been right behind him.

A choked shriek came out of Ronald's mouth as the tall figure hovered over him. He took out a handgun. His whole body was trembling, his fingers shaking so violently he almost dropped it twice, but after struggling with it for a while he somehow managed to pull the trigger.

He also managed to miss at point-blank range (a loud yelp was heard from somewhere behind. Ah, right, Mr. Hero was still there...). Nnoitra had a hard time trying not to burst into a cascade of laughter. That wasn't the time to admire the performance, the little clown man might have better luck the second time and he didn't want to risk being hit. He quickly seized him by the wrist; the constant trembling vaguely reminded him of an electric back massager.

"If you had one of these, why the fuck didn't you use it right from the beginning? Seriously."

The man almost didn't put up any resistance when he twisted his arm so that he was pointing the gun at himself instead.

"Weren't sure how it worked?"

His eyes widened and his pupils became tiny teeny black dots despite the lack of light. Aha, so the gun was still loaded. Fear did wonders to the human body.

"'Kaaay then, I'll teach ya."

He closed his hands upon dear Ronald's and slid a finger inside the trigger guard.

"Please... Please I beg you I beg you I—"

He slipped the barrel past his lips, it made a really ugly screeching sound when he pushed it through the teeth.

"Sorry man, I get paid per finished piece, not by the hour." And he fired.

Neon green and maroon looked pretty good together, he mused.

Only one minor detail left before he could call it a night. The defeated hero was still there, propped against the wall, all bloodied and scared and miserable looking. The clown's stray bullet had landed half a metre away from him, and he was still recovering from the near-death experience. His gaze switched back and forth between the mark the bullet had left on the brick wall and Nnoitra, though it settled on the latter when the author of the slaughter walked up to him.

"Yo, intruder." He grabbed him by the collar of his polyester jacket and lazily pointed towards the pile of bodies. "You're with them?"

"Wha—no, I just..."

"Smart answer. Though a smart person would've just hauled ass and pretended they saw nothing."

He was pleased to find out that the young man's fair hair was just long enough for him to grab and jerk his head back.

"So either you are fucking stupid, or you wanted to be a good little ally of justice and come to their aid."

"They didn't deserve to die," he muttered. So courageous, so gallant, so cheeky. Did that guy have no sense of self-preservation? Most people would be quick to beg for forgiveness when faced with imminent death, provided they had the chance to do so. Poor Ronald had just beautifully illustrated the point.

"Well, you won't save the world this time, Heeeeerooo." He felt his Adam's apple going up and down with an audible gulp. "You've encountered a mid-boss while at level 1, so it's game over for ya." It was fun watching his eyes lit up in terror as he mentioned the 'game over' part. He decided he'd take his time breaking that one, it could be fun... and it wasn't like he was getting any sleep that night anyways.

He let his fingers trace over the young man's face, slowly, painfully slowly, making sure to stop at the gash across his cheek so that it would sting. The delicious hiss he let out made Nnoitra wish he'd brought some alcohol. He lifted his chin with bloody fingers and paused to look him in the eyes. They were rather dark, some shade of brown, and were returning his scrutiny with a hint of defiance. He liked them, in a way.

"Wanna know why I use a sickle?" He lifted the weapon with his free hand. "It's impractical, but I love its shape. I love the way it curves. Because," he whispered, pressing the blade against the youth's throat, "see? It fits like a glove."

The blood of the previous victims drew a grotesque choker on his skin. His breath hitched, his body jolted, still he didn't break eye contact.

"This is the perfect tool for slicing heads off. It gets real messy when you do though, blood keeps squirting and squirting when you go deep enough. And blood stains are a real pain in the ass to get out, ya know?"

It was refreshing to find someone that could hold his gaze for so long. Nnoitra knew he wasn't handsome by any standard, his features were reptilian at best, he was missing an eye, his voice was unpleasant and his smile powerful enough to make children cry. He was bad news and _looked_ like bad news. People didn't really like looking evil in the eye, literally speaking. For that reason, being closely watched made him feel... oddly satisfied. He wondered, could that kid see his budding smile in the dim light of that cliché-looking blind alley? Probably not, when he was the one casting a shadow over him. They were mere centimetres apart by then. He could feel each one of his shallow breaths on his cheek, warm moisture against the cold winter air (it was freezing, he unwittingly got closer to the heat source and could have sworn he heard a whimper at that time), and they were becoming quicker and desperate and even more shallow. The pressure on his throat wasn't diminishing, one wrong move and it would actually be game over. Fright was doing him in.

_Keep looking at me like that and you might live a little longer_, he wanted to tell him.

His eyes were hazy. Was he going to give up?

_Let's make a deal: I'll let you go if you hold out for thirty more seconds. Nah, fifteen is enough. ...Wasn't planing on killing you anyway, just wanted to scare ya! Shoulda seen your face!_

He released him. The young man's arms shot up to clutch at his throat between frantic gasps.

_What in the name of FUCK did I just do?_

For a moment he just stood there, feeling stupid. He should just kill the guy and go home. Kill him off and go home. Go home and not kill him. Whatever.

"Their pals will be here in no time," he finally said with a quick nod towards the corpses. "Run the hell away, or stay here and send 'em my regards, I don't give two shits."

He heard some more running footsteps. Indeed they were coming, perfect timing. That was his cue to clear out.

"Nice knowin' ya, Hero."

That night Tesla Lindocruz learnt many things he didn't wish to learn, one of them that he could get turned on by death threats and the feeling of cold hands and a sharp blade against his throat.

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A/N: Chapter alternately named "The one where Nnoitra steals Ichigo's job title", and which doesn't have that much to do with the general plot of the story. It's like one of those Hollywood flicks that have an unrelated opening scene whose only point is to show off the shiny special effects, but without said special effects.  
Hello everyone, this is the first piece of fanfiction I ever post here, and I'm awfully scared. I hope this was mildly entertaining! English isn't my first language, so I'm sure there are mistakes. Any comments or corrections will be greatly appreciated! :D


	2. The Broomstick and the Frog

Back with more, albeit a bit late. First of all, I'd like to thank you all for taking the time to read this story. Also, many many thanks for the review! You don't know how much a few lines of text can lift your mood until you're on the receiving end :D I'll try not to disappoint!  
So the chapter today doesn't have anything to do with the first. It'll take a bit to tie the different groups together, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! Mostly based off a certain scene in episode 15, introducing the Karakura High gang, and a faint hint of a plot:

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**2 · The Broomstick and the Frog**

People told Asano Keigo way too often that he was bad at reading the atmosphere. He disagreed. It's not that he couldn't read it, he just didn't feel like acting as the situation demanded all the time. That wouldn't be interesting. Besides, was there any nobler task than to fill the class clown position, providing laughter and relief even in the toughest of times? He took pride in his apparent lack of sensibility: it made his friends feel better about themselves, and that, in turn, made him feel fulfilled.

Oh, right, back on track. The atmosphere. It was pretty bad, really. One would usually say that the tension was so thick it could be cut with a butter knife, but at that moment it had reached a point far beyond that. You'd need a damn chainsaw to cut it. Scratch that, cutting it wasn't an option; they'd need a fucking thermonuclear explosion to blow it up. He felt as if they'd all been trapped inside a giant butter block and dumped in the freezer, even though it wasn't a particularly chilly winter day. They wouldn't be having lunch on the rooftop if the weather was too inclement, overenthusiastic PE teachers (preachers?) be damned, catching the flu or pneumonia then dying wasn't what he understood as "making the most of their youth". No, it wasn't cold, it only _felt_ cold, and that guy was the one at fault.

...That guy being, of course, Ishida Uryuu, also known as —only in Keigo's mind, since he didn't want to die at age seventeen— Mr. Broomstick. The reason was pretty simple: he was ninety-nine percent sure the guy had a broomstick shoved up his arse, which ultimately resulted in his impossibly stiff posture and his slightly (slightly being a criminal understatement) assholeish behaviour.

Well, no, to be fair, Ichigo was at fault too. He and his penchant for inviting him to join them for lunch. It wasn't the first time it happened, and he would bet three of his ten toes that it wasn't the last, either. It always went like this: Ichigo would bug Ishida to come, Ishida would refuse, Ichigo'd insist, Ishida'd refuse again, Ichigo'd keep on bugging, Ishida'd keep turning him down, rinse and repeat until he complied just to make him shut up. Then they'd all sit together in a circle, trying to hold an inane conversation and feeling awkward, while their guest would ignore them for the most part and eat his meagre lunch at the speed of light then get the hell away.

Not even Keigo himself could think of a way to salvage the situation, nor could he understand his self-proclaimed best friend's actions. The only explanation that came to his mind was that he got a kick out of seeing Ishida looking like a fish out of water, since by then it was pretty clear that four-eyes enjoyed being around them as much as they enjoyed being around him. Then again, Ichigo wasn't that kind of guy, even if he had a bit of a sadistic streak —he wouldn't hit him so often and so hard if he didn't, right? However, he wasn't the kind of guy that would approach such an irritating fellow for the sake of being nice, he was too impatient. Also really, really stubborn, though. ...Maybe it was some sort of battle of wills between those two. Yup, that must be it.

This time was no different from the others. Ishida was trying to look dignified while chomping down his plain bentou; cooked rice with shredded lettuce. No traces of a main dish, not even a topping. Seriously, he could have at least spared the time to sprinkle it with sesame seeds, or some parsley, _something_! Even Chad was bothered by it, and Chad was rarely bothered by anything. He saw him picking a piece of tonkatsu with his chopsticks and eyeing it thoughtfully, then glancing sideways at Ishida's lunch. He moved his arm slightly towards his left, debating whether he should deposit the piece of meat on the lanky teen's plate while he was looking the other way. He finally decided against it and dropped it back inside his lunchbox, probably afraid Ishida would feel insulted by it.

He couldn't blame him. Not only was Ishida a prick, he was an extremely touchy prick. The broomstick must make his butt hurt too much. Whenever something could be taken the wrong way, he'd take it the wrong way. Dancing to folk songs in a landmine-infested area and getting out in one piece would be easier than managing to interact with him without offending him at some point. Who in their right mind would feel offended by free tonkatsu? The guy was nuts.

Keigo shot Chad a sympathetic look, Chad nodded in acknowledgement.

The silence was so deep he could hear his own heartbeat. The only noticeable sound was that of Rukia drinking her orange juice through one of those straws that fascinated her so. She and Mizuiro were checking the catalogue of that one boutique they were planning to raid, one that specialised in shrimps—er, small sizes, that is. The shortest and most pampered of his friends would probably invite him and make him carry their bags... again. He sighed and started pouting.

Then he got tired of pouting after five seconds. Man, the lack of action made him antsy. He needed something, _anything_ to happen. At that point, an alien invasion would be most welcome.

He tried nudging Ichigo. _Hey, you got us in this predicament_, he wanted to convey, _do something_. But Ichigo didn't react at all. He was too busy staring into space, only their bespectacled guest was sitting right between him and space, effectively blocking the path of his gaze. That's right, his eyes were fixed on Ishida. As far as he could see, the guy hadn't suddenly sprouted a third eye —_more like a fifth_, he thought, then both mentally congratulated and berated himself for the lame joke—, so there was no reason for Ichigo to look at him like that, or was there?

Then he caught on.

It was Ishida's mouth. Ishida's lips. The upper left corner of Ishida's lips, where two stray rice grains were resting, white and tiny, like two young lambs that had been separated from the herd. In his rush, he probably hadn't noticed them sticking to his upper lip. And if the rice grains were lost sheep, then Ichigo would be the hungry wolf, watching the poor unsuspecting prey and waiting for the right moment to attack.

Why he was so attracted to a couple grains of flavourless rice when he had a fantastic packed lunch made with love by one of his sisters, that, Keigo didn't know, but he supposed it had something to do with that 'the grass is always greener on the other side' thing.

Ah, green grass. The wolf looked ready to invade the peaceful meadow at any time and start feasting on the rice-sheep, mercilessly tearing out their flesh and devouring their insides, while the fluffy creatures could do nothing more than to bleat pitifully.

The gruesome spectacle of blood, flesh and saliva (and wool) occurring in his imagination made Keigo's skin break out in goosebumps. It got even worse when he accidentally translated the scene to the real world, to that very rooftop: his friend went berserk, jumped Ishida and pinned him to the floor, then assaulted the rice grains with such violence that his glasses would instantly be splattered with red... _No, Ichigo, stop, please don't become a murderer!_

And no, he wasn't so innocent that he'd miss the other implications of jumping someone, but it was better not to think about it. Because if he did, well... his tongue would eventually slip, and then Ichigo would become a murderer anyways, only the victim would be himself.

Yeah, better not to think about wolves.

But Ichigo hadn't moved a bit, and still had the hungry predator look painted all over his face, narrowed eyes and lips pursed in a thin line. Keigo could have sworn he hadn't even seen him blink. Didn't his eyes dry up? That menacing beady-eyed stillness reminded him of a frog. Did frogs blink? Hell if he knew, but frogs were extremely dangerous predators. To insects, at least. So the sheep had turned into a couple mosquitoes dancing near the surface of a shallow pond... well, they weren't actually flying, so mosquito larvae, maybe?

Ichigo the frog was looking intently at his meal, ready for action. At any moment he would open his mouth and flash his metre long tongue; with its long reach and stickiness, he'd catch the two mosquitoes in one swift movement. He'd make them disappear with a single gulp, they'd never be seen again, and no proof would remain of their existence. Such a tragic end for such ephemeral lives!

And so the time had come. Ichigo's sealed lips parted ever so slightly...

"Ribbit."

Suddenly, five pairs of eyes plus one pair of glasses were staring at him, their expressions ranging from mild surprise to utter confusion and reprobation. Hey, he'd just spontaneously added some sound effects, he hadn't done anything _that_ bad! But oh, he must have done something to warrant those looks. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights, so he did what any gentleman would do in that kind of situation: he pointed an accusing finger at Ichigo.

"You think we can't tell your voices apart after knowing you for so long?" Mizuiro remarked, cocking his head. Rukia nodded while sucking her second bottle of orange juice dry, then dislodged the straw from her mouth only to say,

"Idiot."

That was bad, how could he explain himself? He saw it, the frog, Ichigo, he was about to...! "But, but! You don't get it, he was about to unroll it! The tongue!"

"I _what_?"

"Your fault, man! For staring at Ishida like that, the rice... and you looked so hungry! And thought that you, you know..." Ichigo's frown was deepening as he flailed around, and part of his brain knew that he was digging his own grave with every word, but once he opened his mouth he couldn't stop them from flowing out. "I almost believed that you were gonna—"

Ishida chose that very moment to shoot up like an arrow and pack his belongings as fast as he could. He looked perturbed, the two rice grains still stuck to his lip, and the tips of his ears were red from the cold.

"That's it, I'm leaving," he announced. And he must have heard wrong, because he was pretty sure he'd muttered an almost imperceptible "thanksforthecompany" while walking away.

Keigo made a mental note of asking Ichigo's dad to check his ears the next time he visited.

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He was gonna kill Keigo.

He was gonna kill Keigo.

HE WAS GONNA KILL KEIGO.

And he'd make sure it was a slow and painful death. His words had been haunting him all afternoon, and he was so pissed off he'd had to excuse himself right in the middle of karate practice to avoid hitting someone too hard. Who or what in the many levels of hell had possessed the guy to suggest he was looking at Ishida with hungry eyes? HUNGRY? When Ishida was clearly within earshot? Now he must be thinking he was a weirdo, or worse. He'd spent over a year trying to form some kind of bond with him, and now, thanks to Keigo's big mouth, all his efforts had gone down the drain. _Nice one, Keigo_.

He rested his temple against the cold tiled wall of the cubicle and let out a frustrated groan. Soon after, a swift kick to the door brought him out of his rage-induced trance.

"Ichigo!" Tatsuki called out, "You should've just left early if you had an upset stomach, why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't!" he protested, "And what the hell are you doing here? This is the boys' room!"

"So what? Besides, there's only you in here." She banged on the door some more. "Come ooouuut, Ichigooo! I'm ordering you as your captain!"

Ichigo opened the door. His face was flushed and his scowl was a sight to behold.

"Okay, what's up?" She rested her hand on his shoulder. "You must've had a reason to rush to the toilet in the middle of practice, I presume."

"Nothing. Keigo's an idiot."

She rolled her eyes. "Tell me something I don't know. What did he do this time?"

"Don't wanna talk about it right now."

"Sure, sure." Tatsuki cocked an eyebrow at his reply, but didn't press the issue any further. She must have felt the murderous aura radiating from him. "By the way, I'm leaving early today. Make sure everybody cleans up before going home, will you, vice-captain?" She grinned and playfully slapped him on the back.

"Uh, yeah. Wait, where are you going?"

"I told you, Kanonji's filming near my house today!"

"Huh? Thought you didn't like the guy." Don Kanonji was a flamboyant TV personality who liked spouting random English words while pretending to exorcise ghosts. Ichigo believed Kanonji looked stupid and the whole premise behind his show was stupid. Everybody knew ghosts didn't exist.

"I don't, really, but it's right next to my house! Can't pass up this opportunity, can I? Nothing interesting ever happens in our part of town, anyway." She shrugged, then checked the wall clock. "Ah, crap, it's this late already?"

She flung the door open. Inoue Orihime was waiting for her outside. When the two friends met, they greeted each other crossing their arms over their chest and emulating Don Kanonji's trademark _Bohahaha_ laugh. Inoue noticed him afterwards, and waved.

"Hey there, Kurosaki!"

Tatsuki darted off into the girls' changing room, and Inoue asked him whether he was joining them. Ichigo would swallow a whole live tarantula before having anything to do with either Kanonji or his show, and that's what he told her. He immediately regretted it. He'd usually show more restraint, it was his anger speaking, he swore! To his relief, though, Inoue didn't seem at all taken aback.

"I wonder what tarantulas taste like..."

Ichigo couldn't help but crack a smile. "I heard somewhere spiders taste like chicken," he offered.

"That's right! Many things taste like chicken. I heard frogs do, too!"

_..__.Frog? Did she just say FROG?_

Luckily, Tatsuki came back at that moment, effectively saving her from his misplaced rage outburst. After waving the two girls goodbye, he hung his head down in shame.

* * *

The first year students sure were a handful. Hadn't anyone told the little fuckers to respect their senpai? It must have been due to his bad mood, but Ichigo had never found his position of authority so tiring. He'd been harbouring hopes of accidentally bumping into Ishida at the school gates so he could blabber some lame excuse he'd think up on the spot (or he'd just tell him Keigo was an idiot, which was an opinion they probably shared, so maybe it would work). Those faint hopes were crushed, however, when he realised the archery grounds where he trained were already empty. The damn kids had made him waste too much time.

Ichigo sighed, feeling completely defeated. He needed to get back home and wash the whole day away with a relaxing shower.

He dragged himself to his locker in order to retrieve his clothes, and opened it only to find it empty. Needless to say, he wasn't in the mood for pranks, and whoever had thought that up would pay dearly. He shot a second look at the empty locker, and —_what the hell_— his school uniform was back in place, neatly folded, exactly the way he'd left it.

He closed the locker and opened it again. The clothes were still there. He felt around the inside, searching for abnormalities in the structure, to no avail. Okay, was that his mind playing a trick on him?

It was better to get back home and go to bed early.

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A/N: Frogs do blink, they do it when they swallow. So says the almighty Google.


	3. Raining inside

First of all, a big **thank you** to the people who put this on Alerts! I apologise for the wait, the chapter ended up being twice as long as initially planned.

I decided I'd change the Character A/B categorization to reflect one of the pairings, since this story has no real main character and all the relevant ones won't fit into two slots no matter what I do, heh heh.

Alright, so in this chapter the focus switches back to Arrancars (or those who'd be). Not much action, just some exposition and introduction of new people. 95% of it follows Nnoitra, so be warned for coarse language and character bashing. His opinions, not mine :'D

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**3 · Raining inside**

Go to any town and take a look around. Parks, streets, schools, fairs, department stores. The tallest building in sight is usually where the shadiest business goes down. That, of course, doesn't include landmarks, tourist attractions and such –despite their superb architecture, they aren't convenient places to set up an operation base: too much paraphernalia, too little functionality–, but evil overlords like to reside in high places, and dark fortresses on the top of rocky hills are pretty hard to come by in modern day Japan.

The head office of Hougyoku Pharmaceuticals, a young but fast growing and moderately influential corporation in the field, was one of those suspiciously conspicuous constructions, surpassing every man-made structure around it by far. Not that impressive a feat, since Karakura wasn't exactly known for its skyscrapers, but it was still remarkably tall for a small city on the outskirts of Tokyo.

A 3D version of the company emblem crowned the building like a giant cherry on top of a monstrous vertically elongated cake: a crystal sphere, a couple metres in diameter, glowed with a purplish light, resting on top of a tetrahedron which slowly but incessantly rotated on its vertical axis. A bold white "A" was imprinted on each of the three sides of the pyramid. The bright letters, besides making a good source of discussion and speculation about their significance among the locals, provided a useful point of reference to anyone who got lost in the streets of the business district. Mostly drunken salarymen.

For now, however, we shall forget the peak of this urban lighthouse and the luxurious office right under it (where, at that moment, our evil business tycoon was enjoying a cup of green tea and a friendly game of shogi with his right-hand man) to concentrate on a much smaller, greyer one several floors down. Confined by the four walls was a very disgruntled and sleepy mid-boss, who was debating whether to set the stack of paper he'd been presented with on fire or to toss it all in the shredder.

Nnoitra rested his elbows on the desk and his chin on the pile of paperwork. He'd gotten less than two hours of rest that night –'rest' meaning tossing and turning on his couch–, and it showed. He was at a point where not even a cup of pure caffeine could give him a boost. He was aware, however, that it was better not to complain out loud: he knew a certain pink-haired self-proclaimed genius would use any excuse to needle him, and the bastard would make sure to inject him with something far nastier than psychostimulants.

He turned his head to stare longingly out the window, his hair rubbing the documents and charging with static electricity in the process.A couple pesky birds fluttered by, mocking the lone occupant of the room by reminding him of his lack of freedom. He swore he'd drive their whole species to extinction as soon as he could.

"Booooooooooooring."

He straightened up and stared at the pile of paperwork. Said paperwork would have stared back at him, if it had had eyes.

Alright, let's take a look at the facts: he was a wetwork specialist, a damn HITMAN, and one of the very best at what he did. He made a living taking the lives of whoever his superiors deemed a nuisance, no matter their economic and social status, origin or age. He'd disposed of both seasoned yakuza and helpless children whose only sin was knowing a bit too much. He was ruthless. He was a money-operated killing machine.

And yet there he was, sitting in a boring office, doing... yes, you guessed it. _Office work_. Or more like being expected to do it, since he had no intention of straining his already damaged sight by reading extremely fine print full of legal terms he couldn't care less about. He laughed at the face of death, he didn't fear sustaining injuries in combat, but the prospect of spending the day with the only company of paperwork was enough to make him shudder. Misery, these sheets brought nothing but misery and torment to whoever touched them, he'd do the world a favour by setting them on fire.

It seemed to him someone knew well about his profound aversion to bureaucracy; at least, that's what the sadistic smirk plastered on Ichimaru Gin's face suggested when he'd visited him half an hour earlier, holding the stack of poisonous papers against his chest with a bony arm.

"Well ya see," the fox-like personage had explained after dropping them right before him and as an answer to his what-the-fuck-are-you-on look, "those that oppose us are _mysteriously_ goin' bankrupt and some others are picking up on it, so our enemies are fewer and fewer, y'follow me?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Thing is, yer becoming obsolete to us!" A clap of the hands.

He'd grunted as a reply.

"Just jokin'! We may still require yer services from time to time. The boss just guessed ya need some sort of regular income, we can't let ya starve. That, and we're a bit short-handed at the moment, 'cause he's a real cheapskate and doesn't want to hire new people... 'Still got some unused potential workforce', he says. Pity, I'd like to see some new faces 'round here."

Ichimaru'd then paused to gauge his reaction, giving him a meaningful smile. Meaningful, because it just screamed 'howdy, I'm here to fuck your life up!'. Nnoitra had tried his best to look displeased, but the satisfied blue glint coming from his superior's eyes made him wish he hadn't.

"So ye've just become a productive and respectable member of society. Congrats, congrats!"

His answer had been pretty clear:

"Son of a goddamn _bitch_!"

But apparently Ichimaru hadn't caught it, because he'd just smiled impassively then –hear this– _patted_ him on the head, saying he expected him to revise all the documents by the next day.

Yeah, right he would.

Sure he would.

—

That awful clock with the giant ugly numbers was incessantly ticking on the wall, drilling a hole into his skull with every second. Nnoitra had spent the last three minutes scratching his chin, even though there wasn't anything to scratch there. The boredom was such he'd almost considered taking a peek at one of the documents, just to kill time... No. He had a point to prove, damn it all, he was determined to show Ichimaru there was no use trying to make him behave and do as he was told, like that chalk puppet Ulquiorra did. Even if he had to sit around watching birds fly by for the whole working day.

It took him a while to realise it due to his drowsy state, but fortunately for him, his surroundings were full of alternative entertainment methods. Right, he'd just go harass Ulquiorra. Or watch some porn on someone's laptop. Or better yet, he could harass Ulquiorra by making him watch porn and contemplate his reactions (though he suspected his unresponsive co-worker wouldn't react at all). Or he could...

"GODDAMMIT ALL, DI ROY!" Grimmjow bellowed from the room on his right, interrupting his train of thought. "For the hundredth time, WHY THE FUCK DON'T YOU REPLACE THE GODFORSAKEN ROLL OF TOILET PAPER WHEN YOU FUCKING FINISH IT, AAAH?"

So that morning Grimmjow's excuse to go on a wild rampage would be, of all things, a measly TP roll? Wonderful! His entertainment was served, and he hadn't even had to lift a finger. Having paper-thin walls had some good points. He could hear every single word with no problem as it was, but he still tucked his hair behind his ear and crouched down on the floor, gluing the ear to the wall for better acoustics.

"The fuck, toilet paper?" Di Roy's raspy voice inquired.

"Hah, don't you try to play innocent now. Think I didn't see you coming out of the loo minutes ago, you imbecile?"

"Boss, I didn't—!"

"Yeah right, like I'm gonna buy that. Can't even go take a shit in peace with you around... Wanna know what I had to go through, how much I _suffered_, only because y'weren't good enough to CHANGE A FUCKING TOILET PAPER ROLL?" That was Grimmjow Jaegerjaques for you all, a man in his mid-twenties who had the maturity and finesse of a rebellious teenager. A five year old, at times.

"Alright, alright, sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Don't you dare think for a fucking second I'll let this slide with a half-assed apology, Rinker."

Nnoitra couldn't help but picture an enraged, murderous looking Grimmjow brandishing a used up roll of toilet paper in Di Roy's face. Absolutely ridiculous. When he quietly sniggered from his spot on the floor, a much louder laugh echoed his own from the other room.

"It's true, though. The little shit hasn't moved from here, I was watching him," the amused voice pointed out.

"Yylfordt, you insinuating I'm SEEING things?" Grimmjow was fuming. _It's getting good, it's getting good!_

"I dunno, brother. Do you?"

"You both... I'm going to fucking kill y—"

"Told you I didn't go, boss, why the hell don't you believe me for a—"

"Just go ask Szayel for a checkup, you know he'd be absolutely _ecstatic_ to—whoa, there!"

A loud thud plus a dash of clanks and crashes were heard. A raging Grimmjow had turned his desk upside down and started reciting a litany of combined swear words and death threats. Di Roy was whining pitifully; Yylfordt laughing his head off, unaware he'd be forced to clean up the mess. On the other side of the wall, Nnoitra was clutching his stomach, trying his best not to laugh too hard. He totally lost it, however, when some unknown object crashed into the wall, right on the spot his eavesdropping ear rested.

—

The ruckus died down after a couple minutes. He vaguely wondered what kind of employers would keep an employee that damaged the property on a daily basis. Then again, if the rest of the higher-ups resembled Ichimaru in the least bit...

_Oh shit no_, he pleaded to no one in particular, _please don't let them be like that man. And if they are, make it so that I never have to meet them_, he quickly added.

...And right at that moment, the fire alarm went off and water started pouring down the sprinklers on the ceiling.

"Oh bloody fuck." _Better not be a drill._ He wasn't in the mood for one.

He didn't think of himself as a superstitious or pious man, but for a second he believed something or someone up there was chastising him for thinking ill of those who indirectly provided him with food and a roof over his head. Or rewarding him, perhaps; all that water would surely render the documents sitting on his desk illegible.

He grinned. No, of course he wasn't going to cover them.

To make the moment even sweeter, the abrupt rain had another unexpected outcome:

"GYAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!" a _manly_ high-pitched screech came from the neighbouring room.

Nnoitra darted out of his office and into the lobby. Obviously, he wasn't the only one: practically everyone had vacated their respective rooms to ask for an explanation —even Baraggan's cronies, who thought too highly of themselves to 'mingle with the commoners', had come out of their lair to look for the guilty party. It was particularly pleasing to see Goldilocks Findor with frizzy hair.

As he'd thought, Grimmjow had been both the author of the shriek and the cause of the alarm going off. Sticking his head inside the neighbouring room, he saw him curled up in a corner, hugging himself tightly while trembling and holding a half-lit cigarette between his thumb and index finger: that cigarette must have been the threat identified by the smoke detectors.

The sprinklers had stopped everywhere except for that one room, perhaps to extinguish that minimal trace of a flame, perhaps because they knew about the perpetrator and his predicament. However, Grimmjow was too busy hyperventilating to notice he was the only one getting wet by then.

"Ahahaha, look at you, Grimmjow," he cackled, "just like a kitty cat taking its yearly bath. Havin' fun, eh?"

He must have been a feline in a past life, Nnoitra mused. The scream could be partly justified... hell, he'd been pretty startled, himself. But come on, it was just water, not acid. There was no need to act like he was being assaulted by the little droplets, and he sure wasn't going to drown in them. Seriously, you'd need to have some sort of fucked up trauma to have a panic attack of these proport—

Then it dawned on him, and he started laughing even harder, if possible. _Aquaphobia_. A severe case. Thinking about it, hadn't Grimmjow also screamed like a little girl that one time at a club when some angry woman chucked her drink at his face? Yeah, he had. That a grown man could be afraid of _water_ of all things was, in his uncaring mind, funny as hell.

Neither Yylfordt nor Di Roy showed any intention to help their boss out, some underlings they were. They weren't alone in that. The number of curious onlookers was growing by the minute and no one seemed inclined to lend a helping hand. On the contrary, it was all derisive looks and laughter at the expense of the distraught bathing kitty; some even took a picture with their mobile phones to commemorate the joyous occasion. Nnoitra was about to mimic them when Harribel shoved past him, dropped a coat on Grimmjow, helped him up and guided him out of the room with his shaky arm flung over her shoulder.

"Killjoy," Nnoitra grumbled, pocketing his phone. She, unsurprisingly, ignored him.

As they stepped out, Cuulhourne complimented Grimmjow on his 'fresh out of the shower' look. Slicking your hair back had gone sooo out of style decades ago, he said. Grimmjow mustered up just enough strength to give him the finger.

* * *

"Listen, you bastards, is it _my_ fault they decided to install those fucking ultra-sensitive smoke detectors one week earlier than planned?" a slightly calmer but still soaking wet Grimmjow protested as he sat sprawled on the L-shaped couch, one foot on the coffee table, rubbing his sky blue hair dry with a hand towel. "I just wanted to experience the thrill of smoking in a forbidden area before it was too late. Shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning, goddammit. Can't take a shit, can't take a smoke..."

"Shaddap, you whiny asshole, you at least had a bed to get out of. And go thank Ichimaru, I bet it's his doing." It had to be. He was the only one who would carry out the installation in complete stealth just to see the scene play out. And it had been a damn good show, Nnoitra had to admit, though not even their crafty boss could have predicted Grimmjow's reaction... or had he?

"A large-scale version of a clown's water-spitting flower. Something I would expect from that man." Harribel didn't appreciate the humour of the situation, however.

And, as if he had been summoned, Ichimaru Gin came into the lobby right at that moment. He looked around his surroundings and cocked his head, feigning surprise.

"Speak of the devil," she murmured, and then she got up and left.

"Hello, gentlemen... an' lady." Ichimaru pouted when he saw Harribel snubbing him so openly. "Why's everyone so wet?"

Their ever-smiling boss nonchalantly took a piece of lemon candy from the basket on the glass coffee table, unwrapped it, then balled the plastic wrap and flicked it in Grimmjow's general direction.

"Piss off."

"Now, Grimmykins, no need ta be so grumpy this early in th' day." He smiled, Grimmykins growled. "I jus' came to announce—"

"What, it's the end of the freakin' world? An army of Martians is marching towards Earth as we speak? _Is SMAP disbanding?_" Grimmjow spat while whirling his arms around, exasperated. Not a very good way to release pent up anger, but meh, whatever worked for him.

"If it's about the smoke detectors thing, yer _late_."

"That? Nah, not that," he waved his hand dismissively, "actually..." He became quiet and pressed a finger to his lips, urging the others to do the same. They heard two distinct sets of footsteps coming down the corridor; one a slow, rhythmical clacking noise, the other the squeaking of soft rubber soles. "Looks like they're here."

Just like Ichimaru had predicted, the footsteps stopped right outside the lobby.

"Well, we've arrived. It's been a real pleasure to meet you." a familiar voice drawled, putting unnecessary emphasis on _pleasure_. The door opened slightly with a loud creak that muffled the other voice coming from outside, and Szayel's white-clad figure could be seen through the small opening. "Oh, don't mention it. Come find me later, I'll replace these." He lifted his hand to caress his hidden consort's face and let his fingers linger, again, unnecessarily long.

So, going by the pink freak's behaviour, Mystery Dude X was indeed a dude, and a fuckable one by Szayel's standards. Szayel's standards, however, were horribly low.

"Thank you again. There's no need, though, I can do it myself."

_This voice, w__here have I...?_

"No. No you can't. You _think_ you can, and that's what makes it dangerous."

"Eh...? Sorry, I just don't want to be a bother."

Nnoitra craned his neck to try to see the owner of that discomfortingly familiar voice, to no avail. He saw nothing but Szayel twirling his hair around his fingers, something he did when he was particularly annoyed.

"You know what would be a bother? You letting it get worse for not taking proper care of it. I'm tired of pigheaded men who either think themselves qualified healthcare professionals or are just too proud or too lazy to come to me. They do a dismal job of treating their wounds, let all kinds of filth into them, they get an infection the size of Jupiter in the best case, and do you know who has to fix the mess afterwards? Do you? That's right, yours truly. So don't even think of saying you'll do it yourself. Are we clear?"

"U-understood, I'll keep that in mind."

"You better." He took off his thick-rimmed glasses, pretended he wiped them on his lab coat and pushed them on again with a dramatic sigh. "I didn't mean to lash out at you on your first day, but there are a few things I cannot stand. This kind of idiotic behaviour is one of them. This is not a mere scratch, Tesla. Actually, you should consider yourself lucky he didn't cut all the way through the flesh and open a second mouth here on your right cheek."

Ha, that Tesla guy was really something, to be able to ruffle Szayel's feathers like that right after meeting him!

...Wait.

Hadn't he just mentioned a deep cut on the right cheek...? Nah, it couldn't be the kid from the night before. Too far-fetched. That was probably his paranoia speaking. Yeah, by then, the Hero was either minced meat or wrapped up in the comfort of a bunch of soft, squishy blankets at his house, safe and warm. Damn, what he'd give to roll into some blankets of his own.

"Hey, Szayel! Stop fussing over this loser and come here!" Yylfordt called out from a few steps behind. It was amusing how the guy addressed everyone as 'brother' except for his own brother. "You won't believe what you just missed, man. Took some pictures, wanna have a look?" He snickered while holding up his mobile phone.

Cue Grimmjow's terrified expression. "Don't you _DARE_—"

Had that been an action flick, Nnoitra thought, the following five seconds would have played in slow-mo: Yylfordt's phone described a parabola as it flew across the room; Szayel promptly kicked the door wide open and stepped inside. Grimmjow made a not very graceful attempt to snatch the hovering phone by jumping sideways, goalie-style. Needless to say, he failed; it slipped right through his outstretched arms and his face contorted into a comical grimace. Finally, Szayel caught the phone with one swift move, an eerily bright triumphant smile exalting his pointy features... and the sight right behind the victorious pink freak confirmed Nnoitra's worst fears.

—

_Does he even remember my face, anyway__? _

_A few hours shouldn't be enough to forget__, in normal circumstances. Ours were anything but normal; who's to say he didn't wipe it all off his mind afterwards? I know I would have tried to, were I in his place. Forget everything to keep myself sane. Yet he was enjoying himself, he looked happier and happier with every splash of blood._

_Should I fear for my life...? _

_No. No, that'd be stupid. I didn't last night before jumping right in, I won't this morning. They wouldn't have wasted time and resources patching me up if I was going to get killed off. Still, I dread his reaction. _

_What if he didn'__t want to see me for a second time?_

_Heh. Also a stupid thing to worry about. It's obvious he didn't, he made it pretty clear before leaving: he doesn't give two shits about me. I'm the one running after him, I'm the one who wants more. To know more, and to feel more. I've got no choice but to brace myself for rejection and accept it like the pathetic masochist I just found out I am. _

_He's right behind this door... right behind it. Just one more step. Shit. S__hit, I'm nervous. It can't show, can't._

_Okay, c__alm down. Clear your head. Step inside._

—

_You've gotta be fucking kidding me._

Lo and behold, the meddlesome gallant knight from the previous night was standing upon the threshold. His cheek was covered with thick gauze, the collar of his plastic jacket stained with dried blood. He was trying to stand tall and proud despite looking like shit, and his hands were hidden behind his back. His dirty blond hair was all over the place, damp with sweat and cold mist. A pretty ugly bruise spread across the left side of his jaw (hey, he didn't remember punching him there!), and his tired eyes were adorned with a set of heavy eye bags that matched Nnoitra's own, proof that both men hadn't slept a wink.

Well, shit. What a sick joke.

"What the _FUCK_ is the Hero doing here?"

He pointed a long accusatory finger at the young man; at the same time, in the background, Szayel started cackling like the madman he was. Because of the pictures of wet Grimmjow, most probably, but he could have easily been mocking him.

The newcomer chose that moment to look directly at Nnoitra for the first time, and sent him a curt nod. He didn't seem surprised to see him, nor scared. On the contrary, the corners of his lips tugged to form a tiny smile. Well, it was too bad the Hero was glad to see him again, because Nnoitra wasn't. At all. Why would he smile at someone who'd almost slit his throat hours before, anyway? That was fishy. No, that was _beyond_ fishy.

"Ichimaru, the hell does this mean?"

The silver-haired man draped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him down. Coming from that guy, all supposedly friendly gestures screamed trouble.

"First of all," the fox said, "I'd like to congratulate ya on a job well done." He patted him again, as patronizing as humanly possible. "Ya retrieved what you were asked to, got rid of everyone that got in the way... an' even found a poor kid to pin the blame on." He gestured towards the new guy. "Perfect operation, huh? Ain't that jus' wonderful?"

"Yeah, so what?" He was growing impatient.

"Thing is, you forgot the most important part," he told him, carefully enveloping each syllable with a thick coat of distilled malice. "Forgot something a man with yer experience should never forget. An unwritten rule, unwritten 'cause it's just _too obvious _to write, and that is..."

Ichimaru had a thing for suspense. The bastard took his sweet time to continue, and seasoned the wait with one of his best wicked grins, one that made the hairs on the back of Nnoitra's neck stand on end.

"_Leave no witnesses_. No exceptions, not under any condition or circumstance. I wonder why you of all people let 'im go... That's a first. Maybe yer gettin' soft?"

"Uh..." Like hell he was getting soft, and like hell he'd forgotten. Why, indeed? Liking the way the kid looked at him was a lame excuse. He'd assumed the other goons would take care of him? Nah, that wasn't it. Not only hadn't he wanted the Hero to die by his hand; in a fantastic display of human weakness, he'd wanted him to live.

And so he got his wish.

"Imagine my surprise when ya left and there was someone still breathin'... naw, 'panting' would be a much better term." Ichimaru brought a hand to his lips as if to cover that unsettling ever-growing grin. The upturned corners of his mouth were perfectly visible, though.

"...You were spying me?"

"Spying? Aw, how cruel. I happened to stumble upon the scene on my way home, y'see..." He received a death glare. "Alrigh', alrigh'. I couldn't sleep, an' ya know TV is garbage in the wee hours of the mornin'—"

"Cut the crap, Ichimaru."

"Yes. As I was saying..."

Even though Nnoitra tried to look uninterested in his boss's lengthy and detailed recollection of the events of the previous night, he took in every bit of information like a dry sponge would. So, apparently, the Hero had decided to stay put on his spot and await the next swarm of evildoers. Was he too stupid to understand that when he'd told him to either stay or run the hell away, he'd actually meant '_Run the hell away__, _you fucking idiot!'? Yeah, only a real idiot would choose fight over flight when in that precarious state. Or, maybe, was he too shaken to move? Thinking about it, he'd been immensely lucky Ichimaru was there to take care of the rest... Wait, what the fuck did he mean, 'the kid knocked out all three of those guys bare-handed'? Haha, right. He'd experienced the young man's tenacity first hand; he knew he was tough, but enough to take out three of the mooks, no matter how inept they were, with his bare fists? ...That he'd pounded them so hard Ichimaru didn't know whether they were alive or dead by the time he was done? Yeah, no. The kid just didn't have it in him.

"...And dispatching someone with such potential woulda been a waste, so I thought I might as well recruit 'im," he finished.

"You _WHAT_?"

The hell? A guy that hours before had risked his life to protect a bunch of random strangers, now being paid to act against everything he stood for? A perfect recipe for disaster. He'd just hinder them. Ichimaru was either too dumb to see it or such a sadist he'd get a kick out of watching the kid either progressively grow into an adept executioner or break down in the process... and Ichimaru was anything but dumb, so it was probably the latter.

That made him rage. _He_'d found the Hero first, he was _his _to break if anything, and he'd decided he'd let the kid go so he was going to be let go. Ichimaru didn't have any right over him.

Nnoitra grabbed the Hero by the shoulder of his dirty jacket and violently pushed him against the door, fists clenched so tightly he wouldn't be surprised if his nails had left holes in the synthetic fabric. The young man flinched a little when the door handle stabbed him right next to one of his many contusions, but otherwise he didn't give away any signs of discomfort. Shit. The last time they'd been that close, the kid was trembling and shaking and taking every breath like the next one would never come. He'd been hoping to draw that reaction from him again; make him experience raw fear. Make him go away and never come back to that shithole of a life where he didn't belong.

Those cool, serene eyes that looked a much lighter colour under the morning sun weren't what he wished for.

"Do you even know what we do here?" he asked, gritting his teeth so hard he felt his steadily growing headache kick up a notch.

"I have been informed."

"Y'ain't cut for this, kid. The fuck did Ichimaru offer you, eh?"

_A__ chance to see you again._ "A chance to survive."

Hearing that, Nnoitra took a step backwards. Right, he'd forgotten. The kid probably didn't have much of a choice: he'd been made one of those offers you can't refuse, so to speak. In the end, it was either his principles or his life... it was a good thing his survival instincts ad finally kicked in. Wait, why the hell did he care? He could've stayed in a state of pure ignorant bliss if the guy had just gotten himself killed in that alley. Yeah, way better than having his mistake follow him and show up at his workplace to bite him in the ass.

_Leave no witnesses._

He was pressing his throbbing right temple when Ichimaru spoke again.

"We won't get a tearful reunion scene outta you two, will we?" he whined, tilting his head to the side. "Speakin' of reunions, forgot ta mention the most important part, silly me."

He walked up (crept up, actually) behind the Hero and rested his hands on stiff shoulders.

"Alright, Tesla..."

Ah, true. Tesla, that was his name. He'd totally forgotten right after hearing it for the first time... Huh.

"...meet yer new boss!"

That was it. That man must really have a death wish. "LIKE _HELL_ I'LL LET THIS LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT WORK FOR ME, I'D RATHER—"

Ichimaru propelled the young man forward with a brisk push on the back. Taken by surprise and thoroughly fatigued, Tesla faltered and ended up bumping his head against his newly appointed boss's midriff. The sudden contact felt like a high-voltage zap, a buzzing wave that ran from Nnoitra's stomach to the tip of his fingers and ears, putting his every cell into a state of alertness. It made him want to do... something. Something physical, and most probably violent. For a moment he had the impulse to knee the kid on the gut, in the end it would just be one more blow to add to the collection.

He felt thoroughly disarmed, however, when the young man muttered a simple apology and straightened himself up while absent-mindedly rubbing his forehead.

_What the hell, move! Just MOVE! Bend that damn leg and kick him now!_

But his limbs refused to take orders, which only made his already foul mood worse. Tesla then looked up and searched his features, still hoping for a sign of approval. Pity, he wasn't going to get it.

"No."

"Why, ain't ya happy to have someone you can push your beloved paperwork onto?"

"I don't want him. Grimmjow's the one needing new lackeys, not me."

That was mostly true. Three out of the blue kitty's four loyal (heh) followers had bravely jumped ship and fled after a troublesome incident in which Grimmjow himself had almost lost an arm. Only Yylfordt had remained, using his little brother as an excuse, but whether it was for Szayel's sake or to find more opportunities to suck Grimmjow's cock –that's what one could expect from the Granz brothers; cheap whores, both of them– wasn't of his concern. Di Roy had joined shortly after; he claimed he had connections to the Italian mafia (everyone knew that was a big fat lie) and he was quite the underachiever, but they kept him around because he was such a failure he was entertaining.

That was Grimmjow's way of doing things. He was the sort of man who felt more macho sitting sprawled in a cushioned throne, surrounded by his multiple buddies –like a king, he said, but things as they were, he reminded more of a pimp with a whore on each side–, holding a glass of expensive brandy in one hand and adjusting his balls with the other to make his package look bigger than it actually was. And while Nnoitra wouldn't mind the expensive brandy, he had no use for any ass-kissing guard dogs. He much preferred working alone.

"Oh, I know ya don't want any partners. Wouldn't be much of a punishment if ya did, don't cha think? Besides," Ichimaru lazily opened an eye and, once again, grinned. "He's still alive because of _you_, Nnoitra. He's your responsibility."

Nnoitra scrunched up his nose.

"I'll make myself useful. I promise I'll find a way." His 'responsibility' looked as determined and earnest as possible. How annoying, annoying, annoying.

"Wanna know how to make yourself useful?" he barked. "Here's your first order under my command: take the lift to the last floor, open a window and _jump off_."

The dejected look on Tesla's face made him want to, again, kick something (someone) hard, and preferably Tesla himself. Man, did he look like a willing punching bag. He bit his lip, trying to direct the little energy he had left to one of his legs, and hoping his body would cooperate that second time. It didn't.

"Don't listen ta 'im, he's aaaalways like that." His fox-faced boss waved his hand while whispering to his long-faced underling, like a gossiping middle-aged woman griping about her good-for-nothing of a son. "He barks a lot, yup, but his bites are... well... Well, at least he doesn't have rabies! Or so I think."

_Rabies?_

"No, I understand. Accepting unwelcome changes is always frustrating. I will try my best so that the adaptation process is as smooth as possible."

"Aha, good boy. Actually, no, I want ya to make it as rough as possible." Ichimaru sauntered over to the coffee table and helped himself to a second piece of candy. That time, he kept the wrap. "An' don't talk like the principal at my ol' high school, it's really creepy!"

"Yer one to talk," Nnoitra muttered under his breath. Whether he was heard or not, he never found out.

"Mm. Oh, yeah, that thing I told you before, y'know, that bit about having no more work for y'all?" Ichimaru turned to speak to him, a bulge on the side of his thin face indicating where he kept the chunk of lemon-flavoured goodness. He laid a hand on the back of his head and slightly bowed down in mock-apology. "My bad. That was a lie! I was just tryin' to rile ya up a lil'. Can't wait to see you two working as a team!"

Ready to murder someone but too tired to lift any blunt or pointy objects, Nnoitra decided that was enough. He was going home. He began to stalk off the room; midways, he made a sharp turn to address his new charge one last time. His narrowed eye was a thin line of sharp, icy disdain; cold venom seeped through his clenched teeth.

"Should've just killed you when I had the chance," he snarled. Then he realised just how canned and corny that line was, and stomped his foot on the floor. "Argh!"

"Don't worry, he's a bit difficult, but ya'll see he's a _really_ kind man deep down!"

The bunch of clowns witnessing the scene had the gall to burst out laughing at Ichimaru's piece of advice. He suspected Tesla actually took it to heart.

The last thing Nnoitra heard before slamming the door shut was the fox-faced bastard's mellifluous voice informing him all too happily that the hours he was taking off would be deducted from his salary at the end of the month.

* * *

A couple things:  
I) Nope, as far as I know, actual fire security systems don't work this way. Let's pretend they do!  
II) SMAP is a Japanese boyband under Johnny's Entertainment (standard disclaimers apply: not mine, etc). They debuted over 20 years ago and the youngest member is 34, so I'm not so sure about the "boy" part of "boyband"...


End file.
